The Brazened
by unearthing
Summary: se‧duce, to lead astray, as from duty, rectitude, or the like: corrupt, [KathrynSebastian] in the lowest degree. Two part drabble.
1. Boyish

_I have no idea whether anyone would like this. But I posted the story anyway. There are two parts, the second part will be posted probably in three days. _

_I do not own Cruel Intentions. _

_Dedicated to y-x._

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_She listened as the poet moved from infatuation to adoration, his delight in his goddess-like mistress seeming to lift him as far above mere mortals as the immortal gods, finding both ecstasy and peace in her arms . . . until darkness crept in._

_The verse sings more beautifully as the poet descends into savage jealousy and a morbid self-loathing as his obsession with the woman begins to destroy him. In the end, his hatred for her seemed as great as his love had been. He dreamed of her death and, perhaps, desired it._

_Alice Borchardt _

_The Silver Wolf_

_pg 261_

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She promised a restless eternity. His mind circulates in territory. _She is mine. . . . Not in body, but in soul. _Brazened and copiously she did what she wanted. Behind the closed French parlor doors of course.

_Madonna of depravity. I am everything. _

_Forget that movement, forget that page. I will write whatever I want to. Honey we're leaving soon, get away. Run away. Fly away. Snow and sun, the weather hasn't changed. I ski and I run, truly I am no good at either. Sorry, sorry, squint your eyes sweet and bare the pain. There's nothing I could do to help. I get dizzy, she says shut up. I promise you'll feel better soon. I don't like this pain. I don't want to open my mouth. I've experienced; I have character, and I know intelligence shows in my eyes. _

_I'm smart, then. I'm beautiful, I'm unhappy. I hit a record last week. Five days, two hours. Of sleep, insomnia, what runs my mind? _

It seems as if yesterday was June.

_Why do I hurt so much? No matter how many times I change it, that still word continues to exist in hatred. Bother, bother, bother me brother. I need more. _

_I care? No! I don't Self benefit. Listen, don't listen, confusion, gestures. Ask me I'll ask, you. Help me . . . . . ?_

School started two weeks ago. Kathryn the beloved chaste Queen; Sebastian, Manchester's sensual King.

Annette? The quiet darling known as Sebastian's newest object that held his utter fascination.

Cream coloured walls were infested with elite children. Competition ran like water between them. I win, you fail, Princeton, Yale, Harvard. My father went there, so will I. Your Chanel sunglasses are crooked.

Life was simple, in comparison to what it could be.

_I do not starve. He wants the sky to burn. His skin had been broken, sewed together crazily scarring oddly. A car? He didn't press charges. (Fade into each other. You would and I wouldn't. Then we might decay forever.)_

_Annette, he called, he cried, he loved? _

_Kathryn, he tasted, he craved, he bled. _

A little silk black dress, the one everyone seems to own, lies gracefully form fitting across her thin body. Petite! Petite, thin, skinny, tiny, small; describe me, I am antonym to you. So sick she is. Bleached teeth, for bulimic reasons.

She says:

'Sebastian . . . .'

She whispers.

The small dots of her fingertips, her hands flitting across my chest. Kathryn's pursed lips, a little 'o' of pink succulence.

I twist and raise my face to hers.

More. More of her touch, and her feeling and her red mouth that breaks my head.

I want this.

I want it and I know no matter what that it's not mine to have wholly.

_Hope is the denial of reality._

My eye's catch hers and there's nothing. Raw abyss of nothing that I can't feel. Thin fingers, indenting between the knuckles.

I search for her, I see, and I hear, and _if I listen closely, I can hear her blood._

Last night I dreamt I was an addict, and this morning I knew that I was.

_Part one, end._


	2. Girlish

_Here it is! The second part! I know many of you have waited anxiously on the edges of your seats, yearning for me to finish this simple piece! It is as before, plotless, and without meaning, and I do dare you to read and understand my total meaning in this prose. _

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This is the female perspective _Kathryn's_. She is slightly more coherent than he is. It might not be the way it is, but it exists in the way it does in my head.

_The angels touched her hands and her feet; and then she hardly felt how cold it was, but walked quickly on towards the Palace of the Snow Queen. . . . . . . ._

_The Palace walls were made of drifted snow, and the windows and door of the biting winds. There were over a hundred rooms in it, shaped just as the snow had drifted. They were lit by the brightest of northern lights. All the chambers were immensely big and empty, and glittering in their iciness. There was never any gaiety in them; not even so much as a smile. . . . . ._

_Hans Christian Andersen_

_The Snow Queen_

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He was my toy. A flesh piece of entertainment.

I do not want more. Yet I am drawn to his knowledge of my honesty.

Who are you? And why must you wander? Does one in your shoes wish not for the security of adulthood?

I helped as I could. I couldn't bother myself with certain issues so trivial. Kill and let die. I quoted you yesterday, read from your Tolstoy and hoped you hadn't noticed those slim new creases, vertical on the book's spine.

Sunshine, moonshine, let your sins shine.

She almost cried, when he almost died. Heavy feelings on her chest; guilt?

She had almost cried, the day they had been so close to the reality of her dishonesty.

_Where are you going?_ He asked. Tapping fingers, twitching slightly as she moved closer towards the door. She didn't face him as she spoke.

_Away_, she answered. _Out._

And she left.

She stood on the edge on the stage, unseen, but herself watching others. It's an odd revenge, the wrists that swayed over the heads of the crowd were scarred. Horizontal thin lines sometimes connected, crawling up the arms pooling in pale palms.

_Closed my eyelids on the daisies _

_That sit next my feet, growing through cracks _

_Sparks jump around cigarette butts _

_And I smile at my luck. _

Music pounded, loud hoarse screaming, cryptic nonsense of blood and pain. The simplicity of a self repressed weakness. Odd metal music.

_Heh. Pathetic. _She laughed at their foolishness, self mutilation could be done in much better ways. _Poor children!_

Her Father owned this club, and many others dotted in cities across the country. Odd entertainment for her, one who rarely sees beyond the limit of upper class society.

Did you love her? He loved her?

And yet, she couldn't be surprised.

She had thought not; you don't even understand yourself, so self involved.

Hidden to think. Fallen behind the curtain, enveloping shadows and fingers clutching the end of the walls.

Silence licks itself into all corners and the thickness of it stuffs the open passages between the people.

I'll sleep. Cool things seeping slowly, I can see the lines in my skin. Three rings on one hand, two silver on the other, care to guess my memory!

Do you know what they think of you?

_My fifteen year old self, looking, twisting her reflection in an ornate mirror. _

'_Yes, Kathryn?' His voice was thin but deep, and she could feel his heat above and behind her. _

'_Uh humm, I continue , as I was saying earlier , I mean, what would you name the point of being ourselves if one cannot do all things forbidden?'_

_He smiled, and even so young, he was seductive. Utterly beautiful, outrageously charming. _

_No fear of the known. _

Epitome of cynicism, and life wound itself around your brain. Sick in a non literal sense.

He made me wonder, wonder. All I wanted was to be beautiful. Dauntingly so, darkness carried in my bones and allure broken and sewn in my skin.

I am nothing if not yours.

One day you may ask me, tell me what you know? And I can quietly laugh at you, in the way that I do; respond that I know nothing, and brush away the dusting of secrets that adorn my mind.

I know of the words that you put in that journal of yours, found out most the previous autumn, beginning of senior year. I didn't care for a while, I knew you would see through my lies.

Your beloved Kathryn, odd martyr and child of the lesser sanity, viewed as an addict and manipulative dealer of social ruin. In kind words that is.

Wasn't your pretty hope; bed of roses and glassy eyed seductress. Blue skies existed overhead, grass is odd, and still string blades.

Nothing has changed.

Here and everywhere.

It is the same.

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End file.
